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i sink into
the squeaky brown leather couch,
the black screen of the television glares at me
and the obnoxious floral wallpaper dances behind my head.
and you comfort me in your chicken noodle soup warmth.
i place my head on your patient chest
and your heartbeat slows as your body settles.
i reach up and untuck the curl from behind your ear,
smooth life into each strand of tired hair with my fingertips.
and my tongue unchains my thoughts at last.
i mumble about my slowly fading friends,
my angered family,
the stereotypes about us
written in their untrusting eyes
these i am pelted with until i drown
in the bitter thoughts.
your lips against my head soothe me
they thirst for mine
and we touch …
"it’s love that they doubt," i whisper,
(your love still lingers at the corners of my mouth)
"and I listen to their doubts,
believe the experienced and long-trusted."
so perhaps you and i are wrong?
we are not one, but two
we do not love, we lust
it will not last, i’ll lose –
"i know," your eyes sing at me,
"that i love you."
i am silent
and i stare into your scarred hand
that rests on my wrist ever so gently –
it almost reminds me of your kisses.
i know i love you too.
so while their shouts lurk in the corners,
i escape into our often dreamed-of future
or onto that static phone-line connection
or that caramelized leather sofa
waiting in your basement.